Hamlet. Harry Potter. Hawaii. Heart surgery. Hippopotamus. Hog farming.

[dogeared]

Edward was obsessed with his job. Every now and then Doon would ask him how it was going, and Edward would get a feverish look in his eyes and say, "Ah! It goes by inches, young Doon. By millimeters. I've done this much"-he held his thumb and forefinger a tiny distance apart-"and this much remains to be done." He stretched his arms as far apart as they would go. "It's a gargantuan task. I press forward, but will I finish in my lifetime? It is doubtful." His fingers black with dust, he often came home in the evening later than the workers who went into the village, and he was so tired by then that he usually went straight to bed right after dinner, even though it was still light. Doon would hear him mumbling in his sleep inside the closet. He could make sense of only a few words. "Caterpillars," Edward would say. "Cathedrals. Cattle. Chemistry. Christmas." Then he'd groan and thrash about, banging his bony limbs against the closet door, and go silent for a while. When he muttered again, he'd be on to a different letter: "Hamlet. Harry Potter. Hawaii. Heart surgery. Hippopotamus. Hog farming." Doon imagined that Edward's mind was so stuffed with information by now that there wasn't room for any more, and the excess had started leaking out in the night.

-The People of Sparks, page 199